The Telephone Call

What happens to the message when a call is finished? Is it waste in the Universe?

By harry hoggPublished 2 years ago • 12 min read

Tom Schofield strove at his work high above the waves. Words forming lines before a swishing pencil tore and took them out, and the air filled with whispered profanities. By nightfall, four thousand words were written down; hard bitten words that came not from inspiration but persistence and the belief that he is a writer, and that this word alone implies professionalism. He cannot afford the luxury of sitting around waiting for inspiration to draft the books for him; it never had, it never would.

All the time, Tom thinks to himself. ‘What if a train arrives and I’m not there to see who gets off.’ And because he’s a writer he is there, and no one gets off. Trains arrive and depart, lives teeter on the brink, suitcases are packed and unpacked, bells are rung in far off steeples, journeys begin, finish, and yet still travelled. Soft burning September skies, a dog barks over the hill, letters are written, sealed, posted, and they talk of love, fear, or fun — and all these things happen but go by unnoticed because of writing. An idea, like a train, blows its whistle and moves off.

Tears form in the back of his eyes fighting the need to fill the blank paper in front of him.

The phone rings.

A year to the day since last it rang. Tom is terrified to move. His throat constricts and swallowing is painful in this moment. He slowly, deliberately, picks up the receiver, looking at it before holding it to his ear. Rarely are words conveyed across worlds, the static clearly distinguishable.

The voice is velvet. “I know there is nothing I can say or do, Tom,” Katherine says, “I know what is happening in your head is private and your own. And I understand how difficult it must be to be always going on; to be always thinking about something remarkable, or ordinary, but you can do it because you’ve always done it. It’s just, well, I know when you’re despairing and sad. I want you to know I love you just the same as when your ideas came easily, and you were happy and fun to be with.”

Those were the words he heard. Something far beyond the night as tears soak on his eyelashes.

“Tom, why are you working so late?” Katie’s voice is edible, soft.

“I don’t know, Katherine,” he says. “It’s all part of the stupid torment of ideas.”

“Tom, you’re hopeless. You need to sleep more.”

“No — no — I don’t. Where are you?”

The line crackles, burns, static sparking, rigorously trying to disguise the voice that is clearing its way through the mundane.

“Tom…Tom…are you there?

“Don’t hang up, Katherine, don’t ever hang up. Do you understand?” His grip on the receiver drains his knuckles of colour.

“Tom, you’ve been writing, haven’t you? I disturbed you. I’m sorry,” she says, recognizing the distress in his voice. “Tom, what is it?”

“Katherine, listen, we are part of something right now. I don’t know what. Time travel. Crossed wires. A lightning strike. I don’t know. Please…please do not hang up the phone.”

Tom’s voice echoes down the line, catching hold of electricity, words passing Saturn on their way to Jupiter, through cosmic galaxies too far off to think about. Each word bouncing off a meteor, making its way to where?

“I love you, Katherine, I love everything about you. You made me so happy.”

Tom rests back in the chair, eyes watering, becoming translucent diamonds falling down his cheek. “All the silly arguments, the times I should have been in the garden with you, instead seeking the bloodiest sights, for what, for what, Katherine? Thinking I could be a hero, when a real hero would have been home with you and the children.”

“Tom, what’s wrong. Are you in the middle of a love story? Is that it? You’re always odd when writing. I quite like it really,” she tells him, her voice shining through a million years of light, sliding through electric fields to be captured in a phone call.

“Honey, I never realized soon enough, I’m sorry. When I was home, I never saw the magic. I was too busy making a fool of myself. Dreaming up fabulous worlds when the most fantastic world was right there with you. My God, I swallowed every dream….”

“Tom — Tom! Stop. You’re doing that weird thing. Listen, help me decide about our Valentine dinner, then you can get back to your work. As much as I love your imagination I live in the real world, and I’m struggling to think of something special for dinner. Help me, please.”

Katie’s voice is fading, caught up, sizzling, burning out with still so far to go.

“Katie don’t hang up…. dinner, you want to know about dinner?” Tom looks at the phone like he’s going stir crazy. “Anything, Katie. It doesn’t matter.”

“Tom, how long are you going to keep this up? You can be immensely frustrating at times. Help me, I’m trying to think of something other than vegetarian meat loaf.”

“Is it winter where you are, full moon, snowing, beautiful snow? I miss the snow, Katie. I love vegetarian meat loaf.”

“God — you drive me nuts — I was thinking the Bouillabaisse to begin with…”

But her voice is fast disappearing, words having epileptic fits, sentences becoming skeletons and corroding with dust. Words too quickly fading, broken, and crumbling against the edge of space.

“No, listen, Katherine, you don’t understand about right now. I cannot write this moment down fast enough. This moment in time. Right now, you can believe anything, the three wise men travelling over the mountains and along shores to hail a new life,” and the desperation of this moment leaves his stomach and enters his throat, sticking there like cotton wool.

When the world comes down to one dark minute, and words defy feelings, the primitive state of being a child becomes overwhelming.

There is a light knuckle tap at the door, it opens. “Katherine your son and daughter are here to see you,” says the doctor, standing aside as Marcy and Doug enter.

“Hello, mum. We’ve brought you some flowers,” Marcy says, laying tulips on the table. It’s a beautiful day outside. Doug, fetch a vase from the kitchen, will you? The blue one, that’s mum’s favourite.”

But Katherine is not aware of visitors, continuing to stare out the window while holding the telephone receiver to her ear.

“Katie…. tell me something, anything, just don’t let go of the phone.”

“I’m still here in the old lighthouse, darling. You’ve been gone one hundred and thirty days. I’m so looking forward to Valentine’s Day, and our lovely dinner. You won’t be late. Please don’t be late. If the meatloaf is your favourite, I’ll do the damn meatloaf, okay?”

But something was buzzing on the phone, electrified, and her words were bouncing off fogs on their way to oblivion.

“Tom, did you hear? I’ll do meatloaf…”

“Mum…mum, can you hear me. Do you want your robe? There’s a draft coming from the window,” Marcy told her.

Katie shrugs her off. “I like the dead of winter. I like to think of your father and me all warm and cozy,” Katherine says, staring out on a beautiful evening. “Let me take the phone, mum. Doug is with me. We brought flowers. Doug is in the kitchenette looking for the blue vase.”

“Katie, don’t let go of the phone.” The line sizzled, “I’m coming home, Katie. I’ve learned so much on my travels. I know why the Earth is so beautiful, Katie, tears, human tears pouring into the ground…”

“Here, mum, I’ve got that for you,” and Marcy takes the phone away, its two-foot cord hanging loosely.

“Hi, mum, I found the blue vase,” Doug says, entering the room.

“I was on the phone with your father. He’s coming home for Valentine’s Day dinner. We are having vegetarian meatloaf again. It’s his favourite, you know.”

“I know, mum. Now, where would you like these flowers put?”

Far off, on the end of the line, the static gone tell him Katie has let go of the phone. His heart corrodes with fog as he sits down to write.

Dg is painful in this moment. He slowly, deliberately, picks up the receiver, looking at it before holding it to his ear. Rarely are words conveyed across worlds, the static clearly distinguishable.